


and here fought the younger

by uptillthree



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Gen, bad descriptions of swordfights, caprimonth day 27: war, laurent character study??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 15:06:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14956922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uptillthree/pseuds/uptillthree
Summary: Slowly, very slowly, as though to ensure that his knees would not buckle, Prince Laurent stood up. The young prince brushed the dust off his expensive clothes and stared back at Jord, breathing deep and quick. There was a strange war going on in those angry blue eyes today, Jord thought: He did not usually look so furious after a loss.Then, simply, Laurent raised his sword once more, stepping back into form flawlessly, and said, in that clear, carrying voice: “Again.”(Laurent trains. The ghost of Marlas looms. Jord worries.)





	and here fought the younger

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote like 2 paragraphs of angst and felt like i was already being terribly mean to laurent, so i might have to make up for it with a sweeter fic... but no promises. but i was always very interested in the way laurent’s fighting style is described in the books, so this is A Take on how he developed that, especially in the early years where he had almost no one to trust/learn from. 
> 
> set somewhere shortly after green but for a season, with laurent on the cusp of turning sixteen.

Slowly, very slowly, as though to ensure that his knees would not buckle or his fingers would not lose its grip on his sword, Prince Laurent stood up. Jord stared.

The prince brushed the dust off his expensive clothes as though they were a small disturbance. He stared back at Jord for a long moment, breathing deep and quick as though he could remove the exhaustion from his body by sheer force of will. There was a strange war going on in those angry blue eyes today, Jord thought: He did not usually look so furious after a loss. He did not usually make so many mistakes. It was an unsettling change from his usual clear-eyed focus.

Then, simply, Laurent raised his sword once more, stepping back into form flawlessly, and said, in that clear, carrying voice: “Again.”

 _You had to give it to him,_ Jord thought to himself. _Kid’s got balls of fucking iron._

But the previous duel had been the longest one yet, and even Jord was out of breath. It had been hard-won. “Your Highness,” Jord tried. “I don’t think—”

“Are you incapable of following orders? I don’t see why Auguste even looked twice at you,” the young prince snarled. “I said, _again.”_

Quick as the wind, the prince unleashed a furious strike that would have sliced Jord’s arm clean off if he hadn’t blocked it— the fight began again.

This was already the ninth bout of the day, only three of which Jord had won. The time for water or rest had been minimal—for Laurent was ruthless to himself most of all— and none of those fights had been anywhere near short or easy. And this, every day of every week—all of Jord’s limbs had ached in protest when he’d gotten up that morning, and _he_ was already used to fighting.

Yet young Laurent fought and fought and fought with the same grace and ease every time. _The way the prince trained himself into the ground every day,_ Orlant had said once, _you’d think he was preparing for some kind of battle to the death._

He had a very particular technique that was impossible to pin down, with a tendency to wear his opponent out slowly and turn his opponent’s strength against themselves—but he hadn’t quite got it yet.

Nevertheless, he had Jord constantly on edge in a way that was unlike any swordsman Jord had ever come up against. Swordfighting was often, after all, a test of combined strength and strategy; but Laurent, not blessed with the same natural talent and strength as his late brother, relied so heavily upon strategy and technique and _cunning_ that it threw Jord off.

His style was effective, but not flawless. Jord had often thought that his mind was working too fast for his body to keep up, and the duel itself, in return, was sometimes too fast-paced for his head. Inevitably, Laurent’s sword was forced up and out of his hand, the prince falling onto his side to avoid the following blow.

This time, Laurent could not quite keep up his cool exterior. He fisted his hands in his golden, sweat-damp hair and let out a shout of exhausted, terrible frustration, chest heaving.

“Your Highness!” Jord was alarmed. Jord had made jokes about what it would take for ruthless Prince Laurent to lose his impossible composure just as much as any soldier in the Guard, but—he was not prepared for _this._ He stepped forward and knelt, unsure of where his line was.

“Don’t,” the prince said, “touch me.” His voice sounded empty and quiet. Jord had a hysterical urge to grab him by the shoulders and demand he start cursing him out again, as was their normal.

Instead, Jord stepped back, picked up Laurent’s sword, and said, “Your Highness, you should rest.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Laurent’s mouth tightened in a livid scowl. He placed his hands on the floor and shifted as though preparing to get up. “Give me back my sword, soldier.”

It was the worst idea Jord had ever heard. Laurent’s fingers were shaking minutely from where they lay flat on the floor.  
“Your Highness, if you injure yourself from overwork it will set you back more than a lack of practice—”

“I don’t care!” the prince shouted, breathing ragged, voice raw, still changing. His fingers twitched and clenched together in his lap, one hand twisting around his signet ring, bearing the crest of the Crown Prince. 

The terrible realization came over Jord at last. The third anniversary of Marlas had been drawing closer all week. Prince Auguste had died exactly three years ago, to the day.

And so here was the next and only heir to the throne.

For a moment, Jord could hardly look at the prince, grief and pity curling in his stomach. Jord had lost a captain and many fellow soldiers that day, but the prince, he was reminded, had lost nearly all of his family.

While Jord was floundering for words, Laurent had recomposed himself, pushing himself up from the floor to stand still in front of him. Jord held out the sword for Laurent to take. He had sheathed his own, and ruthless as he was, Laurent was not the type of man to attack an unarmed opponent.

Laurent grasped the sword wordlessly, and then, after a long moment, he said, “Draw.”

Jord nearly gawped. The boy looked close to falling over. “Your Highness, that’s enough.”

“Once more,” Laurent said, eyes closing. Jord would have laughed if he wasn’t certain Laurent would have had him killed for it. If he just dropped his pretence, Jord thought, and let himself be tired for a minute, this would go a lot easier for everyone.

“Your Highness,” Jord said, a third time. “You’re dead on your feet. You should see Paschal.”

Laurent snorted. “And what help would Paschal be?”

 _Well, he’ll have salves you’ll probably be needing for the next few days, at the very least,_ Jord thought, but he did not say it. He sighed. “Your Highness, if you truly want someone to fight you in this state, you’ll have to find another guard.”

Laurent stared at him, quietly resentful. Jord understood it, a little: the need to drown yourself in an act until you were too tired to think, to _feel._ But at this rate, Jord thought, everything in him already had to be numb, and for Laurent, showing weakness in front of one person was surely one person too many.

Finally, Laurent sheathed his sword and said, “Escort me back to my quarters.”

 _Thank God,_ Jord thought. Just before they left the private training room, Laurent stopped to drink water and put his jacket back on. He’d only been wearing a dark undershirt when Jord had been called to join him here, but now Jord saw that he was wearing black from head to toe.

Uncomfortable with the knowledge, he said nothing, averting his gaze as the prince painstakingly retied the laces.

He walked steadily behind Laurent when they stepped out of the training room, determined to at least guard him from any outward intruders if he could not guard him from himself. If Jord were braver, or more foolish, perhaps he would have tried to come up with some words of comfort, but Jord understood that his sympathy would not and would likely never be welcomed. The prince did not look kindly upon weakness, not even his own.

Instead, Jord said, “You hesitate too long between attacks, sir.”

Prince Laurent’s steps faltered for a moment. “What?”

“Your strategy is good,” Jord said, half-wondering if Laurent’s sword would come flying back out of its sheath and gut him for his next statement. “But you spend too long thinking in the middle of the fight, so you end up losing whatever time you’ve bought yourself because you’re trying too hard to come up with another trick. You’re a good swordsman for your age, you should be able to rely on instinct too.”

“Duly noted,” Laurent said coolly. “Anything else?”

“You like using your environment against your opponent,” Jord said after a moment. There had been one time where Laurent had drawn the fight close to the wall, a calculated risk, and Jord had nearly lost by tripping over a well-hidden brick, which would have been entirely new levels of embarrassing for him. “But that can make you predictable if you do it too often, and sometimes it makes you lose your focus on the actual fight. Your footwork shouldn’t be going against the rhythm of whatever you’re doing with your sword. It should be helping you, not distracting you.”

He watched Laurent absorb that. “I see,” he said as they reached his private quarters, and for once his voice held no bite. Jord almost smiled. “Thank you. You’re dismissed.”

Though it was not required of him, Jord saluted. “Yes, Your Highness.”


End file.
